


Nice Days in the Ice Age

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Meet-Cute, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-23 02:38:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: Harry's favourite joke in later life is to talk about their meeting as though it were the most swoony romantic thing that ever happened. "He fell hard," he says, with that modest little smile on his mouth, and Eggsy's eyebrows fly up in surprise at the unexpected sentimental overshare. "But then I fell hard as well. I don't believe we had much of a choice. The moment we both stepped onto the street that night, falling was inevitable."What actually happened was this: England gets very rainy and very cold in winter, and Alastair slipped on the ice.





	Nice Days in the Ice Age

**Author's Note:**

  * For [anarchycox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anarchycox/gifts).



> Title from [this song](https://youtu.be/HzoHmqpYmz0).

Harry's favourite joke in later life is to talk about their meeting as though it were the most swoony romantic thing that ever happened. "He fell hard," he says, with that modest little smile on his mouth, and Eggsy's eyebrows fly up in surprise at the unexpected sentimental overshare. "But then I fell hard as well. I don't believe we had much of a choice. The moment we both stepped onto the street that night, falling was inevitable."

What actually happened was this: England gets very rainy and very cold in winter, and Alastair slipped on the ice.

He landed on the Savile Row pavement with a bum-numbing thud that jolted like a slinky up the full length of his spine and rattled his teeth, then, very softly, he said _ow_ in the injured tone of a toddler who's still deciding whether or not his current trauma warrants a good cry. Furtively he looked around him, up and then down the icy street, and was slightly cheered to see there was hardly anybody about and the few people who were there seemed far too busy concentrating on their own careful waddling from shop to car to pay him any attention.

Alastair rolled to the side and planted one foot against the pavement, but the moment he put his weight on it to stand up his shoe slithered away again and he collapsed like Bambi. Irritation shocked through him, a heat that might have been welcome were the reasons for it not so fucking embarrassing, and he spat a swear out under his breath as he gathered himself for another attempt.

This, too, failed. _Fantastic_ , he thought bleakly, sprawled on his back in front of the Scabal railings. _If I just skid a yard or so this way I can fling myself down these steps here and be done with it_.

"Pardon me, are you alright?"

Alastair wriggled sideways far enough to see the owner of the voice, who must have just stepped out of Kingsman next door and was lingering on the threshold looking as though it was taking an extraordinary amount of self-control not to laugh. "Yes," he said, toneless and tired. "Just thought I'd have a lie down in the ice."

"And how is that going for you?" the man enquired politely.

"Not the best choice I've ever made, to be honest."

"Would you like some help?"

Bidding a reluctant goodbye to the remaining scraps of his dignity, Alastair said, "Yes please," and lay there helplessly like a flipped tortoise as the man came down the steps and toward him. "Be careful, it's ever so—"

"AH!"

"—slippery," Alastair finished weakly as the man from Kingsman wildly wheeled all his ridiculously long limbs to no avail and landed in a heap on the pavement beside him.

"Bloody hell," the man said, wincing, rubbing at his sore hip, but in the golden light of the streetlamp Alastair could see the dark shadows of deep dimples notched into his cheeks as he tried not to laugh. "We wondered if you were drunk, but I understand now."

 _We_ was a deeply unpleasant word under the circumstances, and Alastair deliberately didn't look up at the Kingsman windows and the row of faces he suspected might be pressed there snorting and giggling. "Well, I'm planning to get appallingly drunk just as soon as I manage to hobble to a pub."

"We might have to wait until spring at this rate." The man made a hesitant attempt to get to his feet, then yelped again as he crashed back onto the pavement. "This is absurd! Give me your hand, let's figure this out..." He trailed off, straightening his crooked glasses before grasping both of Alastair's offered hands. "Yes, this'll work. Sort of, you know, use me as a crutch, then I'll..."

Again he fell silent, steadying Alastair while he got to his knees and then letting one hand go to brace against Alastair's shoulder to steady himself. Face to face now, kneeling, the man considered their grasped hands for a moment and then shook politely as though they'd just been introduced at a party. "Harry Hart. How do you do?"

"How do you do? Alastair Holmes."

"Halfway up. Can we make it all the way, do you think?"

In hindsight, there was definitely a flirty glint in Harry's eye when he said that. In the moment, Alastair was too cold and aggravated to notice. "Yes," he said, determined. He inspected the pavement in the lamplight, trying to decide which spot looked the safest and coming to the unfortunate conclusion that every bit was as bad as the rest so it didn't particularly matter where they tried to stand.

"Torvill and Dean made it look so easy," Harry said, dimples flashing again. "Go on. I've got you."

Holding both hands, as well as his breath, Alastair rose to his feet with a glacial slowness that seemed rather fitting, all things considered. He exhaled slowly, nervous about making any unnecessary movement that might do a number on his precarious sense of balance, and managed a wobbly sort of smile down at Harry. "And I've got _you_. Up you come. Take it slowly."

They slipped in the ice again.

Harry couldn't stop laughing. He landed half on top of Alastair, hard enough to leave bruises he found on himself in the bath later but not enough to fully wind him; he still had enough breath left for a brutal string of swears, at least, which only made Harry laugh harder. Tears beaded his lashes, sticking them together in dark little points around his flecked brown eyes - and suddenly Alastair found he didn't mind this quite so much, this lolling about on the ground business, not with the warm scent of Ambre Topkapi in his nose and the flex of biceps under his palms, nothing between his skin and Harry's but the expensive navy chalk stripe wool of his flawlessly tailored suit and a crisp white shirt he would very much like to see crumpled and discarded on his bedroom floor.

"This is fucking hopeless," Harry said, finding his handkerchief and shoving it up behind his glasses to wipe his streaming eyes. "We're going to have to crawl like drunkards, I'm afraid. There's a cup of tea and half a pack of chocolate Hob-Nobs in it for you if you can make it to the door."

So they crawled: past the Scabal steps Alastair knew he would never again try to ascend for fear of agonising flashbacks, past the office door, past the Kingsman window behind which a bald man was staring at them and slowly shaking his head in speechless despair while a man in tweed clutched himself around the middle and quaked with laughter. The first touch of fingertips to the chilly brass handrail felt something like he imagined a religious ecstasy was supposed to feel, and Alastair hauled himself up clumsily to sit on the bottom step and think very hard about his life.

Harry patted him comfortingly just above the knee, where his trousers were torn and his skin was grazed like an ungainly idiot schoolboy. "Bloody well done. Shackleton was knighted for less than this. What do you say we make it a glass of Dalmore instead of a cup of tea?"

"Alright," Alastair said. Weakly he tried a smile, and found that even in a mood this grim it was actually very easy when you were looking at a face like Harry Hart's. "But please, no ice."


End file.
